The kind of night where all huddle protected from the
wind and cold—the rain slashing down—seeming death to any traveler.
The predators and their prey snuggled in their dens securely from the storm
burrowed in mounds of leaves heads sleepily bowed.
Yet I walk alone through the blackness with a measured step
frigid drops dripping off my old rain jacket—ice forming in puddles—glassy and smooth.
Tramping through the leaves, up hill and down
spying the occasional glimpse of cheery lights
from little houses in the valley so far below.
Imagining what it is like for those inside
warm and dry and protected from the night.
Am I one of them, fearful of the night?
Or am I something different, closer to wild?
Does it really matter which I am?
Perhaps I am both whether I like it or not.
Chuck Connors, October 12, 2010